


minefields

by thefudge



Series: i hate so much about the things that you choose to be [1]
Category: Actor RPF, Riverdale (TV 2017) RPF
Genre: Emotional Affair, F/M, Feelings Not Acted On, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Tension, in the mood for love (movie inspo), ost: the worst taste in music by the radio dept., so much piniiiiing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 05:16:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: She's not luminous, she's smudged dark. No volcano mouth really sleeps. Colemila.





	minefields

**Author's Note:**

> lol i kind of hate how this whole thing got away from me...and turned into a 4k pretentious behemoth, oy vey. I mean I knew I was going to make it more of a character study, but urghhh, this makes In The Mood for Love (2000) look lighthearted. I really liked some parts, but I couldn't stand others, which I guess is an interesting meta-textual element when it comes to this pair. 
> 
> Big warning: this fic is informed by Camila recently disclosing being sexually assaulted as a freshman in college, so tread carefully. There's also some personal trivia, like the bit about Camila chewing ice cream, which is true, apparently. There are other tidbits here and there inspired from real interviews/videos, but most of this is obviously fiction and these are fictionalized (!) versions of the characters. No offense is meant etc.
> 
> Since ppl lost their minds on tumblr over this not really all that controversial fic, I'm going to moderate comments.
> 
> Anyway! Enjoy this bloated, pretentious mess!
> 
> p.s. i didn't include it in the ost tag, but yall should also listen to "sweettalk my heart" from tove lo, cuz it yanked all my hair out while writing this dumb fic.

He can't forget you  
You're quite a find

radio dept. - the worst taste in music 

***

Cami spends most of the season one wrap party with the karaoke machine. She belts out a lot of Norah Jones, joins in every duet, encourages Casey and Marisol to falsetto on a weepy version of _ Seasons of Love, _ while the former screams in her ear, “I love RENT!” and she laughs because everyone she knows absolutely _ loves _ RENT _ . _

It’s when the drinking starts in earnest that she can’t really hide behind group activities anymore. She asks for a soda which she watches the bartender remove from the mini-fridge. She tells him she doesn’t need a glass or a straw. She takes the can outside. 

There are a few empty seats by the pool. The electric blue of the water is calming at night. She spends half an hour chatting with Madeleine, who has removed her shoes and is swinging her feet in the water. Cami watches the girl’s pink toes underwater and thinks about babies for a moment, about holding a baby, specifically. She doesn’t know why. She doesn’t want to have kids at the moment, but something about the tentative success of her new show and the friendships she has built this year makes her think of infancy, of babies learning to crawl and then walk. She’s learning to walk, slowly. She breathes a bit easier now, or so she thinks. She still hasn’t taken a single sip of her soda. 

Madeleine leaves after a few minutes. Cami doesn’t follow. She lounges back in her deck chair and scrolls aimlessly through Twitter. She’s thirsty but the can is still untouched. 

“A little birdie told me you also went to NYU.” 

Cami lowers her phone. She didn’t hear him coming up behind her. 

“Oh, hey.” 

Cole launches himself in the deck chair next to hers. He’s not very graceful about it. 

Maybe most people wouldn’t notice, but he’s absolutely drunk right now. 

She can smell spearmint on his breath. He’s chewing gum to mask the alcohol, she thinks with a wry smile.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, trying to enunciate every letter.

He’s turned sideways, as if he’s tucked himself into bed, fetal position, hair falling in his eyes. 

She shudders, being reminded of babies again. She imagines past girlfriends lovingly pulling the locks of hair behind the shell of his ear. There’s something very Depression-Era-Charlie-Chaplan-vagrant about him. It’s hard to tell if it’s just the alcohol or his personality. 

She smiles. “Nothing. Private joke.”

Cole groans. “Wait, why did I come over here?”

She shrugs. “I can’t tell you.” 

He inspects his thumb for a while, fascinated by its callused edges. Then it hits him, “Oh right, NYU. Hey, why didn’t we know each other back then?”

Cami knows this isn’t the place or time for this conversation, but a part of her is a bit miffed that it took him this long to finally find out she was a fellow alumni. 

“I knew _ of _you,” she says noncommittally. “You were famous back then too, you know. We all sort of knew you.” 

Cole groans. “Ugh, sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound err...self-aggrandi-aggrandi-grandi…” He struggles a bit with the word and then gives up entirely.

“Self-aggrandizing,” Cami helps. “No, it’s okay, I didn’t think that.”

“That’s a _ relief _ . But my question was,” he says, trying to focus his thoughts, “why didn’t we _ know _each other? Not like you knowing me from the Disney channel. But as friends. Why didn’t we hang out?”

Cami smiles patiently. “ It’s a big school. Chances of us hanging out were slim to none. I saw you around at parties, but I was terrified of approaching you. Why would I? I was no one.” 

Cole frowns. He shakes his head. “And you think you’re someone now?”

Cami lets the question sink in. 

She’s noticed something about him this past year of knowing him. He often says things in this brutally honest way that sounds _ so _awful that you actually believe him when later he insists he meant nothing by it. That’s just how he talks. Cami thinks that’s probably worse, to be so cavalier and unaware. 

Well, he’s also drunk, so maybe she’ll give him a pass.

“Yeah, I think I’m someone,” she replies boldly. Something she worked on with her therapist right after the “incident” was self-affirmation. Not the hollow kind where you tell yourself you’re the best and never believe it. Little things like “I’m in this room right now, I occupy it”, or “I’m wearing this pair of pants right now and no one else is”. Stuff like that grows, eventually, into bigger things and becomes organic. 

Cole doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches her with intent. Or maybe he’s forgotten why he came over again. 

“It’s insane,” he remarks suddenly, lifting his thumb towards her, then extending his index finger as if framing her face in a photograph, “cuz I definitely would’ve noticed you. Should’ve noticed you.”

Cami raises both eyebrows. 

“Why would you have noticed me?”

Cole scoffs. “Come on. Don’t fish.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re fishing for compliments.”

“I’m _ not _.”

“You are.”

Cami feels the tension building right at the base of her neck. She hates getting riled up, especially over an inebriated co-worker whom she has to play nice with. She smiles. He’s not going to remember this by tomorrow. “Okay. No fishing. You’re saying you should’ve noticed me because I’m good looking, right?” 

Cole’s expression turns a little sour. He likes irritating people into honesty, but he doesn’t _ actually _like it when they’re honest. His eyes try not to linger on any part of her. 

“Yeah. That’s why,” he says, and it sounds, _ again _, very honest and a little ornery. 

“You’re _ veeery _ pretty,” he adds with a drawl, “that’s the _ only _reason I should’ve noticed you.”

It sounds like a half-baked barb between friends, so Cami laughs because she’s a good sport, even though she isn’t 100% sure he’s being friendly. In fact, she’s almost 100% sure he’s not. 

“You didn’t, though,” she replies, her tone light. “So I guess I wasn’t pretty enough back then.” 

Cole smiles. “Well, you’re pretty enough now. For us to be friends.” 

She doesn’t like the full stop between those two sentences. And she kind of hates how she can’t tell what the fuck is going on in this conversation. But if she were honest with herself, this has been the leitmotif of all their interactions. Oh, he’s a lot nicer when he’s not drunk, but...there’s always this aftertaste of nastiness to their encounters. They’ll smile and hug and goof around on Instagram like old friends for the audience, but she feels that deep down they’re always undermining each other, fighting about something they’ve never quite named. She has no idea why there’s tension between them. A pebble in the shoe. It’s not - sexual. No, it’s _ weirder _somehow, less tangible, yet far more intense. 

Anyway, he doesn’t get to have the last word. 

She smiles, rolls her eyes. “I’m so honored to finally be worthy of young Mr. Zack.”

She sees a muscle flinch under his eye. “Uhh, Cody, actually. I was Cody.” 

“Really?” she asks, looking down at her phone, starting to type. 

Cole clears his throat. “I think I’d know.” 

She smiles. “Just want to check real quick.”

Of course she knew from the start which of the twins he used to be, but she can be an asshole too. 

Cole reaches forward and grabs her phone. And her hand. 

“Yeah, okay, you got me.” 

Cami feels the pressure of his thumb as he tries to drag her hand towards him.

She resists.

“Let go,” she says with a nervous laugh. 

He doesn’t entirely let go. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” 

“For bothering you.”

His hand glides away from her wrist, fingers tapping gently against a keyboard. 

She swallows too quickly and looks over her shoulder. A few people are chatting at the far end of the pool but no one has come over to interrupt them. And Lili is somewhere inside.

Maybe she should go find her. 

She gives him her untouched can of soda. “Here. I’m gonna go get a drink.”

She turns away from him and plants her bare feet on the cold tiles. 

Her shoes are somewhere under the deck chair, but she’s too lazy to grab them.

Or maybe she’s too chicken shit.

She walks away fast. 

This time, she tells the bartender she wants a gin and tonic and she watches him pour it in a glass with a straw. She feels a little bit victorious. 

She doesn’t really talk to Cole for the rest of the night except for a few cheery “_ heys _” as they intersect at the bar. He’s got his arm around Lili. 

“Did you know she also went to NYU?” Cole asks Lili, faking incredulity. 

Lili beams. “Of course I knew, dummy. Everyone did but you.” 

Cami laughs. 

Everyone smiles. 

“Oops, gotta go,” she says comically, like a cartoon character, as a new karaoke number is about to start. 

Sometimes, she loves nothing better than a quiet shoot. Maybe it’s stuck-up to admit she likes being photographed, but it’s not really about the photos, although she enjoys that part too. It’s more about the eerie feeling of standing alone on a platform or in the middle of a field, or wherever else they take you. Being by yourself, isolated yet singled out, safe but not sheltered. It’s like jumping out of time. Yeah, there’s a lot of hassle involved, yeah she doesn’t always feel great in that particular bathing suit, yeah she doesn’t like that shade of lipstick, but she gets to be depersonalized for a few moments. She gets to take a break from the normal rhythms of real life. She can’t explain it. Maybe it’s just vanity. She skips down a country road with a cowboy hat on and a ridiculously tight pair of shorts like some Brazilian Daisy Duke, and she feels objectified and carefree, and she laughs and shows her teeth and she feels the edges of her personhood coming apart. It’s great.

It’s too bad that not all photoshoots are solo photoshoots. 

The Riverdale promo shoots are a different thing. She can never relax with other people posing next to her. That’s when she feels like a real phony, though she tries her best not to show it.

The weird part is they keep positioning her next to Cole.

Sometimes she’ll stand next to KJ, because it seems to her that Veronica should be in the vicinity of her boyfriend. Or she’ll sit back to back with Lili, because what are best friends for?

But invariably, the director will tell her to go slightly to the left and stand next to “Jughead”. 

They also have them wearing darker clothes than the rest of the cast. 

Presumably because she's the ice queen and he's the outcast, but it feels like they're both outcasts on their own show. 

She doesn’t see it until she looks at the posters. 

They look nothing alike, but there’s a twin quality there. A _ sympatico _. Maybe just because they’re both dark-haired on the show. Maybe it’s just that shallow. 

Sometimes they don’t even pose.

A person she doesn’t know by name or face opens Photoshop and drags her figure and places it next to his. Just like that. 

In real life, though, it’s always like dance classes when she was in middle school. Trying to suck her belly in. Trying to keep her breath even. Trying not to mess her hair. He doesn’t make her nervous. He just reminds her of those stone-faced judges at regional competitions who were deeply unimpressed by her little theatrics. She knows he’s not really like that. He’s not arrogant like that, not where it counts. But still. There’s that well-intentioned antagonism, lurking under the surface. 

She’s shrugging a denim jacket over the black top for the latest shoot. She watches KJ and Lili come out, both wearing white. She frowns, looks down at herself. 

“Boo.”

Cami pretends to be scared. “Oh no, it’s Cry-Baby!”

Cole laughs, looks down at himself. He’s wearing a dark leather jacket and there’s one particular lock of hair trying to poke his eye out. 

“I don’t know _ how _Johnny Depp did it. I really wish I could wear a tiara for my hair.”

Cami guffaws. “I can lend you one. I have, like, a million.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “You do?”

She regrets saying that. “Just like two, maybe.”

“Pageants?”

She _ really _regrets getting into it now. “Uhh, spelling bee, actually.”

“They gave tiaras to that?”

“Mom made me one with my name on it after I won my first time. Sorry, that was weird. Anyway, I’m_ ...blah..._tired of wearing black. I think I should change. I want some color.” 

She’s being a little manic for some reason, smiling with all her teeth. 

Cole stares over her shoulder at KJ and Lili in white.

“Nah. I think you're good. So, where’s the second tiara? You only mentioned the one.”

Cami stiffens a little.

Yeah, the second tiara. It was stupid and childish and not very therapeutic. After spring break her first year of college she bought herself a tiara. It was too expensive and gaudy. Nothing like the one her mother made her. It’s not like it helped - at the time. She cried while wearing it to bed, which was appalling enough. 

She shrugs. “Probably at the bottom of a drawer somewhere.”

“Tsk, tsk. That’s no good. You have to find it and give it to me. Or else."

She doesn't know where he's going with this. 

"Or else what?"

"Or else I'll turn into Bridezillaaaa,” he blares, making his eyes bulge and mouth gape, as if he’s about to lunge at her.

She laughs and ducks and feels stupid all at once, for telling him all that, for even bringing it up. 

She ends up in KJ’s arms and Cole’s got his arm on Lili and they’re grinning at the camera.

Black and white, tasteful contrast. 

Two days later he sends her a text - which feels weird and antiquated somehow. 

_ Found my tiara? _

_ Haha no. Sorry. You’ll have to keep poking your eye out. _

_ What’s the toughest word you had to spell? _

The change of topic doesn’t faze her. She spends a few minutes agonizing over the question, trying to remember. 

She doesn’t know why it matters, but it does. 

_ Euouae. _

_ Huh??? _

_ It’s a word. _

_ Sounds and looks like a Canadian swear. _

She sends laughing emojis.

And for some weird reason the conversation ends here. She supposes he googled the word. She doesn’t bother to tell him what it means. 

Almost a year later, like a fucking freak, he spells it backwards on the fogged window of the diner set.

_ E-U-O-U-A-E _

“See?” he says with a smug smile. “Piece of cake.”

Cami grabs one of the prop menus and hits him on the arm. “Shut up, I was twelve.” 

It’s so bizarre to carry on a conversation that happened a year ago like no time passed at all.

He walks away, mouthing each letter silently, using his fingers to make an E, a U, an O…

When the scene starts, she stands with her back to him, waiting for Madeleine to walk up to her at the counter. 

She moves her hand to the ribbon at the back of her waitress’ uniform. And she plants her middle finger there. 

He takes a few photos of her when she’s not looking. When she thinks he’s taking photos on set of everyone. 

She doesn’t realize she’s still in a photo shoot, almost always is when he’s around. 

He doesn’t show her the photos, which makes him feel like a creep. But not too much of a creep. After all, an artist has a right to privacy. 

He’s not an artist. He doesn’t kid himself. 

He doesn’t look at them often. The photos. 

He just wanted her in a frame for himself. 

There’s something pictorial about her. She belongs in a frame behind a glass case, but somehow that doesn't make her lifeless. You objectify her, you plastify her, you remove the dimensions, but the girl survives. 

She's not luminous, she's smudged dark. No volcano mouth really sleeps. 

In one photo, she’s giving him the finger behind her back.

Like she knew he was capturing her. 

(anyway, what is he supposed to do when she shows up on set each day in a new oufit they gave her precisely so she can fuck with him? how can he channel that frustration without being a dick?) 

(eventually, he gets rid of the photos, one by one) 

They don’t meet during auditions, because their characters don’t happen to cross paths that often, and for some reason the first time they really come face to face is at the pilot reading. 

Lunch break, specifically. 

She’s eating ice cream in the parking lot. 

Before he has a chance to introduce himself or say hi, she bites into the cone. She sinks her teeth there. And chews heartily. 

Chews ice cream. 

“Did you just -”

Camila wipes her mouth self-consciously. “Oh, yeah, it’s the only way to get the taste. Oh my God, I used to watch you on TV.” 

He stares at the smudge of ice cream still left on her manicured nail. It’s like something out of Raymond Queneau.

She often remembers the moment with a good helping of mortification. She could’ve phrased it better. She could've not said it. 

She thinks he must’ve found her starstruck moment _immensely_ funny. She made sure never to be so candid from then on.

But she’s wrong. 

What he was thinking when he saw her was that he wanted to have strong teeth like her, to chew ice cream. He wanted to possess a part of her already, and then hungrily, hours, days, weeks, months later, more and more teeth, more and more pieces, collected, cellophaned, beautiful, but not beautiful enough, always more beauty inside her. Maybe that’s what it was. She was a fount. 

The animosity was just a need to get to the bottom of that well. 

Imperialist fantasy, colonizer's dream. Privileged white boy's exploits. 

Yeah, all of that.

Little fragments don’t have to make sense. There’s no subtext between them, because there just aren’t enough pieces. They get along. They’re friends in that unnecessary way you describe co-stars. They enjoy each other’s humor. They both like John Waters. They might be attracted to each other the way everyone is. Objectively, everyone around them is pretty. They’re all pretty people doing pretty things. They all _ love _each other. They’d love to love each other. They’re like pancakes, families stacked on families. “My Riverdale family”. It’s supposed to be so organic. 

But they never quite succeed at that. 

Weeks after Luke’s death, everyone is hugging on set at random moments, clutching at each other with a sudden burst of memory, because Luke used to make everyone feel as warm as this. 

But they can’t do it.

They hug and she closes her eyes and buries her nose into his sweater and he rests his head atop her hair, and it’s fucking _ fake _ , even in grief they can’t let go of this charged _ nothingness _ , this weird fight they never even started. Her nails clutch the back of his sweater. He smells the coconut in her hair and wants to tell her to wash it. They want to tell each other, _ you’re full of shit. _

But also, it’s so comforting that they’re both the same brand of bullshit.

So in a sense, they really mean that hug. 

It’s just so ridiculous, she wishes they could touch and talk like normal people and not minefields. 

She knows it wouldn’t fix it if they did something childish like have sex. 

They love the people they’re with too much to attempt it, and anyway, it wouldn’t make this chasm go away. You can’t chase away emptiness. But why is it so electric? What have they discovered in each other that only they can share? And why can’t they speak it? 

She cringes when she watches them on video, as they mug for the camera at that pizza place in Vancouver. KJ told them to stand over _ there _cuz he was going to film them being “America’s Next Top Models”.

“Pose for me, queenies.”

So they did. Cole sauntered around her, smiling oafishly. She twirled on the spot, tried to look like an ingenue Wednesday Addams. 

They eventually dissolved into giggles.

It was pretty cute, she thought at the time. 

But when she looks at the video she sees two aliens who are just now learning Earth’s habits. She sees a weird frankness, an inability to be close to each other without revealing something. 

Before their first kiss, she thinks, _ okay, this is gonna make it go away. _

Get it out of their system, whatever weird volleyball is between them. 

She walks on set ready to work. 

But five takes later, they stare at each other in the pool and laugh like hyenas and can’t seem to do it. His hand glides down her bare back, wet and heavy, and not pleasant, just not - _ not _okay to have that kind of weight there, why is he hanging onto her like that? And she’s still got her hands on the side of his face, shaking it, shaking the wet drops out of his hair, straight into her eyes. Why is she causing herself this pain? And everyone thinks they’re like brother and sister and that’s why they can’t do it, and Lili keeps shouting “make out or get out!” and they have to keep laughing to hide it, this rabid energy radiating off them, so finally, Cami leans forward and whispers in his ear, “please screw your eyes shut when I do it or I won’t be able to do it” and it’s the kind of thing he’ll never forget. Sometimes he’ll be out drinking with friends or spending time with his girlfriend and those words creep up on him, those words like snake tongues at the back of his neck, and he has to sit still for a moment. He doesn’t know how many more people he’ll sleep with in this life, he doesn’t know if he’ll fall in love over and over again, if he’ll grow old carrying only one torch, but he knows nothing will be as painfully, clumsily erotic as that plea, that piece of unreality, the whisper only he heard, her climb to him, two people touching skin, kissing for the cameras.

(the kisses are good and chaste, tantalizing in their quaintness, no tongue, no wandering hands, just her palms on his cheeks, so much bare skin, no inkling of further exploration, but the words, the words reverberate. Maybe the well doesn't have a bottom)

The season three wrap party is a more muted affair. 

She wears the tiara which she found at the bottom of a drawer. 

She doesn’t know what possessed her to put it on tonight. She knows she won’t get closure. But she felt like unearthing something. 

Everyone says it’s really pretty. 

Cole doesn’t bring up their private joke. There’s that fjord between them of hidden, frozen things. 

Casey tells her maybe they should pull a _ Mean Girls _ and break the tiara into pieces, share it with everyone. It would be like a messy Luke tribute.

She’s totally game. She tries to bend it in half, but real tiaras are harder to destroy. 

It’s Cole who eventually brings a hammer from the back. No one asks where he got it. She almost wants to laugh. 

They place the tiara on the floor, because they don’t want to break the glass table.

Cole stares up at her before he takes the first hit. Almost like asking,_ are you sure? _

She nods, never breaking eye contact. 

It feels good when the pieces start coming apart and they’re staring into each other’s eyes, despite the danger of getting hurt. 

After all the articles come out about what happened to her in college, he writes her a lengthy _ email _of all things. It’s wordy and mopey and kind of self-important, something about feeling responsible for the “toxic NYU environment” and how he's part of the problem, how he wishes they’d been friends earlier and if she needs to talk he’ll be here.

It should be thoughtful, but it feels like a prank, somehow. Maybe if they were other people, maybe if they sensed each other less, this would be less awful. 

The chasm is brimming with energy. 

She texts him angrily.

_ You’re full of shit. _

And then, to safeguard herself, she adds two laughing emojis. 

He calls her.

She doesn’t expect that. She rejects the call.

He calls again.

She rejects him.

He calls again.

By the eighth one, she answers.

"Stop it, or I'm blocking you." 

"Hey." 

“_Hey_.” She hates that her voice cracks a little, right at the beginning.

“...are you okay?”

“Yeah, I was...I was just kidding,” she says, voice cracking further. 

“No, you weren’t. I fucked up. I’m sorry ...that email was garbage. I made it about myself.” 

“It’s fine.”

“It's not. I just felt so helpless, I’m sorry...I mean I was _there_, and I know it’s a big fucking school, but I should’ve done-”

“I told you it's fine. Really.”

“Sorry, I'll stop. Do you want me to come over?”

She laughs. 

“I’m roughly two thousand miles away from you right now.”

“Yeah, and?”

_ And I’ve got someone who is here for me, and you’ve got someone who’s there for you, and we’re not friends, we’re just really fucked up satellites. _

“Just say the word and I’m there. I'll drop everything.”

She laughs bitterly. “You really are full of shit.”

There’s silence on both ends.

She wipes her cheek. 

“I’m really proud of you.” 

She laughs, less bitterly this time. “Fuck off.” 

“I’m serious. That took guts. You’re the bravest person I know.” 

“Yes, you wrote that in the _ email _.”

“Ugh, please delete it.”

“I’ll keep it as leverage. Anyway, thank you, I guess.” 

“I love you,” he says, like friends say to friends. “You know that, right?” 

“I don’t know,” she mutters.

“Don’t fish. You know I do. I love you the most. The _ mostest _.” 

There it is, that antagonism again. That teasing, aggressive streak.

He means it, but he doesn’t.

They do, but they don’t. 

Feeders at the bottom of the ocean. 

“I have to go.”

She clicks off, but it doesn’t feel like a fight. 

It feels like nothing they've felt before. 

When she returns for filming the following week, there’s a photo pinned to her chair.

In it, she's wearing a Pop's uniform with her back to the camera and she's giving him the middle finger. 

The finger looks symbolic, like something out of an icon. 

Cami smiles. 

(_ Euouae _is an abbreviation, a shorthand from a Gregorian chant. She used to know that when she was younger. 

“In saecula saeculorum, Amen”, the _ Gloria Patri _goes. 

_ Unto the ages of ages, Amen _, expressing the idea of God’s eternity. 

The glory of God forever. 

And maybe that’s what it was between them.

It’s scary sometimes, to meet divinity like that.)  
  


**Author's Note:**

> gaawd, that ending lol.  
anyway, hope you enjoyed this absolute snobbery!


End file.
